


Hot Damn

by Pervasive_Threnody



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Idiots in Love, It was funnier in my head, John Sheppard Is a Walking Disaster, M/M, Mild Blood, Misunderstandings, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-16 07:07:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16081016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pervasive_Threnody/pseuds/Pervasive_Threnody
Summary: "Could you at leasttryto sound invested in your life when you're in a crisis?"In which John burns things and really shouldn't be allowed around sharp stuff, and Rodney tries todeal.  Warning:  Fairly minor descriptions of injuries from cutting tools, some blood, and, at one point, a fire that harms nothing but some food and an oven.  R.I.P. toaster oven.





	Hot Damn

**Author's Note:**

> This is, very sadly, the first story I have successfully completed in years of writing that had anything like the vaguest thread of a plot that wove from scene to scene and tied them together. I've never really done much with POV switching either, but the story felt like it needed it. Rodney reacting to John's disasters, John reacting to Rodney reacting to John's disasters, turtles all the way down. I hope it's not confusing. Constructive advice is always welcomed.

"Toaster oven's on fire," John says one day.  
  
That's it.  Just like that.  Like he's come into the room to announce the mail is here.  Not even the _good_ kind of mail that involves long-awaited packages with fun things inside but the disappointing kind of mail with a lot of bills in it, irrelevant local business announcements on glossy card stock, and John's stupid sports magazines.  
  
He sounds so bored that Rodney, engrossed in ripping apart someone's wormhole theory, chooses to ignore him.  Theory, _really_.  
  
He waves a hand.  "Yes, yes, that's nice."  
  
"On fire," John repeats, and _oven_ , _fire_ , and most importantly _Sheppard causes problems_ click into place in Rodney's brain.  
  
He sets down his physics journal with reluctance, inserting a mental bookmark.  He gets up from the couch and angles his head around the doorframe with as little effort as possible.  
  
There's the toaster oven, and there's food in the toaster oven which Rodney is pretty sure isn't supposed to be char-broiled.  Malevolent flames lick at the edge of the pan, threatening to spread.  The acrid stink of smoke hits his nose.  
  
"Oh my god, it's on _actual fire_."  
  
John squints.  "Sure looks like it."  
  
Rodney flails at it.  " _Do_ something!"  
  
"We should probably put it out," John agrees.  
  
Rodney makes a discordant screeching noise and dives for the extinguisher.  At about the same time the overhead system kicks in with an eerily similar screech of its own and sprays flame-suppressant foam everywhere.  
  
The inside of the oven continues to burn.  Rodney stares at it in horrified disbelief.  
  
"I didn't want to eat today anyway," John says.  
  
"Oh, go get the mail," Rodney yells and lunges to put the hot mess out.  
  
***  
  
By the time the fire's out, the mail is on the table, and _of course_ one of the stupid sports magazines came today, which John is just sitting there _reading_.    
  
"Hey," John says absently, reaching to brush Rodney's arm as he stalks by.  "Go shower.  I'll clean it up."    
  
He's flyboy-cool, calm like the last half-hour never happened, like the _house_ didn't almost just burn down, and somehow still unreasonably hot even with fire-suppressant junk in his hair like so much styling gel.  
  
Rodney's pretty sure he's never wanted to punch him quite this hard.  
  
"Right, okay," he says, and tries to unclench his fists.  "I'll, I'm going to go do that."  
  
***  
  
" _Hey, uh_ ," John calls from another wing of the house.  " _Rodney_."  
  
Rodney ignores him and continues typing; eviscerating the foolish hopes and dreams of his so-called colleagues is a thankless task that waits for no man.  
  
" _Rod-neeee_."  
  
" _What_?" he expostulates with utmost feeling.    
  
" _C'mere_."  
  
" _Come on, really_?"  
  
" _Really_.  _Kitchen_.  _Please_."  
  
He rolls his eyes, saves his work twice, and shuffles down the hall, muttering forcibly the whole way.  
  
"Seriously, how many times have I told you:  If it's that important, you get to come find me--" he stops short, frozen to the spot.  "Oh, Jesus, is that _blood_?"  
  
"It's blood."  
  
"Is, is it _your_ blood?"  
  
John looks at it, oozing from his hand.  "Pretty sure."  
  
"What the hell did you _do_?"  
  
Sheepish, John gestures feebly at the blood-smeared, jagged edge of a partially-open blister package and a bloody pocket knife abandoned next to it.  "These things're attempted murder."  
  
Rodney shakes himself and takes a tentative step closer and--oh, god, it really _is_.  Stricken terror shatters and a pissed-off righteous fury shudders loose to take its place.  
  
"Why are you-- _guitar picks_ , in the middle of the night??  How did you survive five years in a _galaxy actively trying to kill us_?  Who even allowed you to become a pilot, much less _fly_ the things?  Oh, right.  The United States government.  Bang-up job on that one, fellas!"  
  
John just blinks at him.  
  
"Seriously!"  
  
"I think it's time for the ER now," John says.  
  
***  
  
Rodney drives, more subdued now, muttering the standard low-key insults John's heard enough times that he thinks he can pretty safely tune it out.  But there's a point where John unlocks his teeth to tell Rodney to skip most or maybe all of these red lights, and that's when Rodney seems to lose it.  
  
"Could you at least _try_ to sound invested in your life when you're in a crisis?" he snaps.    
  
Someone starts a turn in front of them.  Rodney slams on the brakes with a lot of colorful swearing, just managing to avoid a collision.  Good reflexes.  Genius reflexes.  
  
"I'm trying to help you _not panic_ when a crisis does happen," John says, nice and slow and non-threatening, like when he'd try to keep the locals of the week from skewering them.  
  
Rodney's hands grip the steering wheel with white-knuckled violence.  "News flash:  You _are_ a crisis!  It doesn't work!  I'm panicking anyway!"    
  
John rolls his eyes.  "Panic _less_ , then.  Applies to both of us.  It's what I'm trained to do.  What I always did.  You know that."  
  
"Un-train it!"  
  
John gives him a Look.  Rodney snaps his mouth shut and glares right back, the crooked line of his mouth slanting even more sharply.    
  
"Just keep your eyes on the damn road already," John mutters.  
  
They turn away, put distance between each other inside a small space with consummate practiced skill.  John's not sure sure what he hates more, the fact that they're so damn good at it or the fact that they still have to.  
  
He leans his head on the window, stares out at the bleary, ugly lights of a city that will never be _home_ , catches a glimpse of Rodney's unhappy reflection in the glass, and thinks he's fine with equally hating both.  
  
***  
  
"Look," John tries on the way back, "um--"  
  
"Don't _even_ speak to me."  
  
"Right.  Not doing that."  
  
***  
  
"Need you to drive me," John says.  
  
Rodney's at his desk in a ratty shirt and sweatpants, gnawing on a cherry Danish and drinking his fourth cup of coffee.  He waves the Danish at John over his shoulder.  
  
"Nobody cares what you look like at whatever a.m., Colonel Bedhead.  Go away."  
  
"No.  I _need_ you to _drive_ me," he says, in a tone that--Rodney swivels immediately, trailing a comet-tail of Danish crumbs.  
  
"Ohgod, what did you--"  
  
"Table saw," John mutters, his good hand clutching a bloodied makeshift tourniquet.  "We need to go, kind of now."  
  
"I--okay, okay."  Rodney abandons his Danish and coffee and lurches for the dresser.  "Just give me--"  
  
"No time.  Wear that."  
  
"Can I--" Rodney waves a hand at his face.  John says nothing.  He sighs.  "Right, what else is new."  
  
"Call me Calamity John," John agrees, undoubtedly trying to inject some down-home country cheer into this shit.  Rodney gives him the dirtiest possible look, not bothering to dignify that with a verbal response, and off they go.  Again.  
  
***  
  
They load into the car, John in a shirt covered with sawdust and blood splatter, Rodney in his crappy pajamas and a hastily-cinched bathrobe.  Rodney skips more red lights without being asked, ominously silent, again, his mouth a flat grim line.    
  
He says nothing in the waiting area.  
  
He says nothing, following a precise step and a half behind when John gets escorted to a treatment room almost before sitting down because active bleeding gets you a backstage pass nice and fast.  
  
He says nothing while a perky, bottle-blonde doctor, who looks about a day over sixteen, injects John with anesthetic and competently starts to stitch the gash on the outer side of his right thumb.  
  
When the first rivulets of blood seep onto the surgical table, stray drops pattering onto another cloth spread on the floor, Rodney suddenly whines, a tiny strangled noise John is very, very familiar with.  He turns his head just enough, so as not to disturb the nice doctor's work, to see Rodney staring fixedly at the mess with huge eyes.  
  
The trauma doctor, who's very possibly overworked and most definitely doesn't have time for two patients at the price of one, slews only a brief glance at Rodney and his very palpable distress.  
  
"Dr. McKay," she says, delicately weaving her needle, "if you feel the need to leave--"  
  
"No," Rodney says, voice high and tight, hands clutching reflexively at the edges of his ugly plastic chair.  "Thank you, I'll stay right here."  
  
The doctor raises a skeptical eyebrow at her work.    
  
"I'd rather you not--"  
  
"No," John says, forcing it from deep inside him.  "He _stays_."  
  
The doctor looks between the two of them and she doesn't get it, can't get it, but it's not her fault.  She at least has the sense to relent and go back to her work, while John tilts his gaze to the ceiling and lets himself be grateful that the law can't keep Rodney away from him either, not anymore.  
  
***  
  
They're in the ER most of the morning.  By the time John escapes the clutches of the medical profession it's past noon.  
  
Rodney hasn't made a single noise since the doctor tried to kick him out.  He sat in complete silence as the doctor finished her work, stood in more complete silence next to John as he listened to care instructions and signed paperwork awkwardly using the wrong hand.  
  
They're heading out the doors and Rodney still hasn't made a sound, just marches along, stride stiff, shoulders hunched and judgmental, and that's when John can't take it anymore.  
  
"Look," he blurts, "I know this isn't how you wanted to spend your Sunday morning--"  
  
And _that_ strangled noise, John's heard that too.  Rodney, about to unleash hell on him for doing something he thinks is juvenile and reckless.  He tries to head it off.  
  
"So I wanted to say I'm sorry--"  
  
Rodney stops abruptly, in the flow of traffic.    
  
"You're--you're _sorry_?"  
  
"Um, yes?"  
  
"About my _Sunday morning_."  
  
People brush by, some giving them dirty looks.  John takes Rodney's elbow and steers him through the sliding doors.  
  
Or tries to.  Rodney gets a sudden furious look, jams his hands in John's chest and shoves, and it's not like John has had a fun morning either so he shoves _back_ , remembers his hand a second too late, and draws it back with an involuntary hiss.  
  
For a minute John thinks Rodney's actually going to hit him, as Rodney's gaze twitches from John's hand to his face, his hands balled tight; and he thinks, stupidly, _at least I can just walk right back over there and get that treated too_.  
  
But Rodney's expression suddenly crumples.  "Oh, damn you," he whispers fiercely, turning away, hiding his face in his hands.  "Just go to hell."  
  
So, this is happening instead.  
  
John tries again to nudge Rodney along but Rodney won't be moved, he's just going to break down right here, and what the hell, it probably happens twice a day in this place, so John lets him.  
  
"Hey," he tries.  "I really--"  
  
"Don't you _dare_ say you're sorry, _again_ ," Rodney mumbles between his fingers.  
  
Exasperated, John throws his arms in the air even though Rodney can't see it.  "What do you _want_ me to say, then?"  
  
And that's when Rodney explodes, flinging his hands away from his face and his arms out from his body.  "I don't want you to _say_ it, you stupid asshole," he bellows, "I want you to _do_ it.  Stop coming to me with these, these _crises_ while trying to pretend they don't matter!  Better yet!  Stop acting like your _life_ doesn't matter, when I--"  
  
Rodney's voice breaks; he looks plaintively at John, despair echoing in every line of his body.  "While I have to _watch_."  
  
And Rodney's here in front of John, in pajamas and a goddamn bathrobe, no shower, no deodorant even, no _food_.  He drove John here without a single complaint and sat and watched John's bloody patch-up job and stood his ground when he could have cowered away and no one would have blamed him.  He's fluffy-haired and wide-eyed and those might be the start of tears, he's a mess, and he's the most beautiful thing John's life has ever had.  
  
"Hey," he says again, "hey," tugging Rodney to him, and something finally gives, and Rodney lets John bring him in.  He mashes his face into John's chest and clutches at his shoulders and makes ugly noises in his bloody shirt, and John holds him, lets him take what he needs, what he needed for all those years, what he wasn't even allowed to _want_.  What John wasn't allowed to want to _give_.  
  
He can give it now.  
  
Rodney finally shifts, pulling back just a little, gaze fixed on the floor.  John lifts his chin with one finger and looks down at him.  His eyes are as dry as John's shirt, and he gives John a tiny, brave smile, and John's so damn proud it makes things inside him hurt.  
  
He strokes his good hand down the side of Rodney's face.  "Let's get the hell out of here."  
  
Rodney seems to be all out of Rodneyness for now because he lets John put a hand on the small of his back and lead him to the car.  He lets John drive, with just a few perfunctory mutters when John questions him about things like blood sugar and food.  They order takeout on the way and John goes in to get it, pretending his shirt isn't smeared with his own dried blood, and pretending everyone else is pretending the same thing, which seems to work.  
  
They walk in the door.  John plucks the takeout sack from Rodney's arms and carefully sets it on the counter.  
  
"What?"  
  
"It'll keep," John murmurs, and leads him to the bedroom with his good hand.  
  
But I'm--oh."  
  
John makes Rodney's clothes go away, adds his own to the pile.  He tucks him into the shower and follows right behind.  
  
Rodney eyes his bandage.  "You're not supposed to--"  
  
"Rodney, shut up."  
  
"But--fine."  
  
John doesn't _really_ want him to shut up, but there are _things_ he wants to do, and _talking_ is only going to get in the way.    
  
He _does_ instead.  Picks up the shampoo and lathers it into Rodney's hair, making sure to keep it out of his eyes.  Washes the fragile skin of his face with care, dusting little kisses over his eyelids, nose, both cheeks.  Scrubs his broad shoulders and nice solid chest, following the path of his hand with wet, open-mouthed nibbles and licks, all the way down until every inch is clean, pink and shining.  
  
He looks up and Rodney's watching, intent, body still thrumming with tension, a question in his eyes, and John begs him to _get_ it.  
  
He rises up and brushes his lips to the space above Rodney's heart.  Rodney's arms, limp at his sides, jerk up and seize John's body and hold it tight, tight, and John steers him up against the wall and kisses his soft, full, wet lips again and again, until the water goes cold and leaves them huddled together under the downpour that--almost--feels like home.  
  
***  
  
Later, after things like food ("I _can_ feed myself, you know,") and toothbrushes ("Oh, my god, _give_ me that!  Who's the injured party here?"), John takes Rodney to bed and fucks him the way he really likes it--hard, deep, maddeningly slow, giving him time to savor, to _process_ \--pausing between each thrust to drive him out of his mind waiting for more--until Rodney whines and arches back, "Yesyes, I _get_ it, _John_ ," blindly reaches back for John's hand, clumsily laces his fingers around the bandage and stitches, and comes apart; and John doesn't exactly cry, but it's a very near thing because he's so glad to be alive, to have all of this, good and bad, just so goddamn grateful.  
  
***  
  
" _Sheppard_ ," Rodney warbles from a distant corner of the house.    
  
He scratches his stomach, turns a page of his magazine, and reads an advertisement for clubs.  
  
" _John_.  _Here_.  _Please_."  Fainter this time.  
  
" _Whaaaaat_ ," he bawls.  
  
"Here" isn't followed up with anything specific, so John drops his magazine-- _Drivers:  It's all in the details!_ \--with a long-suffering noise and makes an educated guess, which leads him toward the bedroom, where--  
  
"Rodney?  Jesus, no, _Rodney_."  He's on the floor in less than a heartbeat, carefully rolling him over, diving for a pulse--but no, there it is under his fingers, strong and steady.  He sits back, perplexed, and frames Rodney's temples, brushes his forehead with probing fingers, checking for injury, or--  
  
And that's when Rodney rolls back over and starts to make horrible muffled cackling sounds into the floor.  It takes John a second to get it.  
  
"You son of a bitch," he yells and grabs Rodney's neck and fake-chokes him.  
  
"Help, help, I'm being repressed," Rodney yells back, cackling hysterically as John thumps his head into the carpet over and over.  "My genius brain cells."  
  
"I'll show you repressed," John growls, and hauls him onto the bed, caveman-style, to murder some more of Rodney's genius.  
  
***  
  
"Worst.  Revenge.  Ever," John mumbles when he knows some _words_ again, and Rodney looks like _maybe_ he remembers what numbers are.  
  
"Mm.  I blame you."  Rodney even _yawns_ smugly.  "Keep on with this quality of orgasm and before long I'll be, you know, _you_ -intelligent."  
  
John kisses the top of his head.  "The horror."  
  
"History's greatest monster," Rodney agrees.  He nestles into John's shoulder and closes his eyes.  
  
***  
  
John stirs, later, as Rodney's fumbling with the blankets.  
  
"N'thanks, 'm good."  
  
"Shut up."  Rodney finds his un-bandaged hand and drags it free, needing--needing--  
  
"Are you--"    
  
"Just--burn the oven, okay?"  He mouths the scar with tiny, frantic kisses, over and over and over, trying to blink away the sting in his eyes but it won't _stop_.  "Burn as many as you want, I'll buy more of them for you, I'll _build_ things for you to light on fire, _please_."  
  
John just blinks at him.  "Uh, okay?"  
  
"I just--"  Something desperate is gnawing inside as he claws away the covers so he can burrow into John's warmth, scent, presence, _life_.  "You've only got one body, and I can't--when--when it's gone I--"  
  
" _Oh_.  Hey, hey, c'mere."  John's arm slides around Rodney's waist, and his hand rubs up and down Rodney's back.  The other hand wraps around his neck and strokes through his hair.  The bandage scuffs along Rodney's skin and he shudders, hiding his face.  "I can't promise.  But I'll do better.  I'll try.  Okay?"  
  
Rodney nods a yes into John's chest, soaking up his closeness, breathing him in, trying to _relax_.  It's not enough, never going to be enough--he's seen with his own eyes that life is short, _so_ short, so _fragile_ \--he's never just going to be _okay_ with _try_.  
  
But it's all he can ask from John, who's already more than he deserves, as long as he's being honest with himself.  So he takes a deep breath, leaning into John's warm support, and lets it go.  For now.  
  
There's a suggestive wiggle.  "But, if you _wanna_ build me a new body--"  
  
" _No_."  Rodney clutches at it.  "It's mine, and I like this one."  
  
John laughs that stupid honking laugh that makes Rodney kiss him to shut it up.  "Glad someone does."  
  
Rodney shuts him up, then takes John's good hand and smacks him with it.  
  
"I really, really, really do."

**Author's Note:**

> There's a bit of extra story to this: All three of these "crises" have happened to one of my own family members. My brother cut his hand opening a package late one night and, knowing I was the only one still awake, tried to summon me from across the house to where he was bleeding profusely into the sink. I pretty much ignored him until he got a bit more vocal about it. 
> 
> Years later, my dad lit the toaster oven on fire and came into the living room and just _announced_ it, in a bored, monotone voice, like John did. I'm still laughing and shaking my head over that.
> 
> I was the one who drove my dad to the hospital in more or less the same state of disarray Rodney was in, early one morning when Dad sliced himself with a table saw. He and I were alone in the house that weekend, and he wandered in and said I needed to drive him to the ER, absolutely failing to communicate the urgency of the problem (okay, yeah, having to go to the ER is kind of _already_ an urgent thing, but to my way of thinking, if it was THAT bad he would have called an ambulance), and it was early and I was busy at my shiny new computer and what, I don't have time to brush my teeth? Oh, okay. The running of red lights was real too. 
> 
> They're just so unflappable in a crisis, those two. They claim it's to keep everyone from panicking, including themselves, but there is such a thing as _too_ calm, if you aren't communicating the seriousness of an emergency. 
> 
> And we know John is the same way. I imagined him having little near-disasters like this and acting so nonchalant about it, and it would drive Rodney up the _wall_ , especially without Atlantis to distract him anymore, until he _finally_ just has an epic McKay-style breakdown, in public, of course, and John _finally_ figures it out. Boys, boys, boys.  
>   
> 


End file.
